


Model Citizen

by I_mNotYourEnemy



Category: DCU - Comicverse
Genre: AU, Footballer!Kon, M/M, Model!Tim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 07:43:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_mNotYourEnemy/pseuds/I_mNotYourEnemy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the model Tim Drake stumbles across a college football calendar photo shoot, he attracts the attention of one of the players. There's certainly a connection, but not one Tim's entirely sure he's comfortable with. Conner is brash and determined and there's just something about him that Tim finds intriguing. Perhaps it was his persistence, or maybe the Doctor Who reference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Model Citizen

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in an AU in which Tim doubles as a model as well as a college student, while Conner plays for his college football team. This started out as a random idea spread over a couple of pages. One week and twenty-two pages later, we have this.

Wayne ArtCorp would never cease to astonish Tim. He had been working there for almost two years but its sophistication and simplicity still surprised him as he entered the building. The employees moved flawlessly and efficiently about the place and hardly a second was wasted. It was easy to spot the newer workers from the old, although the enthusiasm within them never dwindled. There was always something new to look forwards to; something innovative and different. It had to be, of course, or else the majority of the business would fail. Wayne ArtCorp relied heavily on the creativity of the world’s leading artists to inspire and awe the millions, whether it be through painting, photography, or film. Every piece of work had its unique flair and something unusual to offer its audience.

At the age of seventeen, Tim had initially started as an intern for one of the photographers and was simply thrilled about the entire opportunity. His father had made a few connections—although he slightly doubted their legality—and before he knew it, Tim was being whisked about to change lenses, make coffees, and file paperwork. One day he noticed a photographer staring at him and had questioned him on his sudden interest. The photographer, as it seemed, decided to promote Tim from intern to a trial model. He’d been hesitant and verging on shy to begin with, but an older model had taken him under his wing and shown him the ropes. Dick Grayson was Wayne ArtCorp’s golden boy. He was loud and quirky and care-free, and everyone was a little bit in love with him. He was the adopted son of Bruce Wayne—the owner of Wayne ArtCorp—but he never played this to his advantage. He’d gotten to his position through his own hard work and initiative, which was respected by those who worked with him.

Tim’s first few test shoots had been a bit shaky but he’d relaxed a week or two into his new job. His father had been a little confused at his son’s sudden change in career but was pleased that Tim was happier. As a model, he somehow learnt more about photography through being in the centre of the action rather than standing at the side lines. His nerves had been a slight issue; he wasn’t used to the attention or the pressure but he had soon adapted. He tended to ignore the thought of how many people would view the photographs taken of him and just concentrated on the moment. He’d already known his way around a studio and had noted how models generally acted, so building up his portfolio had taken almost no time at all. What happened after that had been somewhat of a surprise.

Dick had been in an interview for a popular fashion magazine and had casually mentioned Tim in a response to a question. This, of course, lead to hundreds, almost thousands, of people wanting to know who ‘little Timmy’ was. He had a very limited online presence but someone had seen chance and taken it. He was commissioned the next day to do a typical male clothing shoot with Dick, advertising the range of teenage and adult clothes. The duo worked well together and gained immediate attention.

Jason had been harder to win over. To begin with, Jason was almost completely dissimilar to Dick. They bared similar stories; young boys taken off the streets and made into stars, but Jason had reacted so differently. He was also close with Bruce, and many suspected that he was a second son, but he veered more towards a stereotypical rock star lifestyle. He played up to it mostly but no one really bothered to wipe away that façade. He drank and smoked and travelled randomly without telling anyone where he was going. Tim had thought the man hated him when he joined the industry but his opinion of him slowly changed. They eventually moved from harsh remarks to witty banter. Tim appreciated that Jason came from a difficult background and had even been close to death once, but he still tried not to keep his back turned to him.

His school life was strange, to say the least. He’d dropped out during the last year of high school but not because of his new popularity in the media. His schoolmates acknowledged his new-found fame, however it had hardly tainted their view of him. The girls noticed him more, and a few boys too, but they remembered him from the time he’d been wiry and nerdy, not that he wasn’t still partially like that. Eventually life had caught up to him and he found himself unable to cope with both pressures from his school and work. Bruce had talked to his father and they’d agreed to let Tim leave school but still take him exams; they knew he was intelligent enough to achieve passes in all his subjects. He wasn’t just a pretty face, after all. After a glowing college recommendation from Bruce, he could have been accepted into anywhere he wanted but settled for Gotham University, not wanting to stray too far from his life right now. He studied biochemistry with the ambition of pursuing it as a career after he finished modelling, but for now his job provided him with more than enough money to get by. His life was odd but he liked it that way. 

+++

A day he liked to remember with both fondness and a hint of annoyance had been a Tuesday at some point in November. It passed as slowly as any other day without a job but he kept himself mostly amused by playing around with a new camera he’d been lent. Most models didn’t bother coming in on off-days but Tim saw the building as a beacon of opportunities and a resource of knowledge and imagination—although admittedly it was located in Gotham which was hardly a beacon of anything in reality. If anything, he could visit the state of the employee gym and burn off some frustration, mostly caused by Bruce’s yuongest irritating son. He still maintained his hobby of personal photography and experimented whenever he wasn’t needed, or simply studied for the sake of learning; he’d covered his entire course during the first month in which he received his textbooks. On that particular day, he’d intended to pay a visit to the photographer he first worked with—a man called Peter—to show him his latest batch of photos. He hadn’t realised, however, that his studio would be filled with rather tall and very muscular men, all laughing obnoxiously loudly and lounging around in inconvenient places.

“Hey, hotshot, wanna come over here?” a voice called to him, followed by a chorus of chuckles and wolf-whistles. He scowled in their general direction and decided that it would be best to just carry on and ignore them rather than turn back.

“Derek, leave him alone,” said another, but Tim took little time to remember his face. He was rugged and had his dark hair tousled in a surprisingly attractive manner. Aside from that, he saw nothing special about him.

“Boys, what are you—oh! Tim!” Peter bustled over to him, handing an assistant his camera and beaming to Tim. He didn’t hug him—he knew Tim liked his personal space—but he looked delighted to see him. “You’ve got your new stuff, right?”

Tim held up the file, labelled with the day’s date, and nodded. “Yeah, freshly printed for your viewing pleasure.”

Peter took the file from him, flicked through the first few pages, and let out a low whistle. “Kid, I swear you could go pro with this. Any agency would be lucky to have you.”

He gave a small shrug in response. “It’s just a hobby. I want to go into something a little more academic after I graduate.”

“You gonna stick with the modelling or is that just a hobby too?”

“I’m not sure about that yet,” Tim replied. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

“Well,” Peter said, straightening his back and glancing around the room, “I have to get back to this lot. It’s some college football calendar but the guys who commissioned me are seriously splashing out on this. It just takes a while to get them sorted out so it’ll probably take another day or two to get all the photos I need.”

A smile pulled at Tim’s lips and he gave a soft laugh. “Don’t you get paid by the hour?”

“Sure do,” Peter grinned, “Why d’you think I’m wasting time now?”

Tim shook his head, partly exasperated but mostly amused. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

“See you around, Tim.”

He turned to leave, ignoring those who shouted “Bye Timmy!” behind him.

When he entered the gym after changing into loose-fitting clothes, he was moderately surprised to find it practically empty. He checked the time and found that it was lunch time for most employees, so that solved the mystery of where everyone was. Tim wasn’t that hungry and he knew he’d consume the appropriate amounts of nutrients at some other point in the day, but for now he needed to work. Dick often became concerned and called Tim a workaholic, only Tim saw it as him having different priorities. He remained in good physical health and completed all of his work to an exceptional standard so he deemed there to be no reason to worry. In his opinion, he was perfectly fine.

Tinny, unoriginal music played over the stereo system and although Tim knew he could easily bypass any security or firewalls on the system and change the music, he felt more comfortable with simply listening to his own music through his headphones. With the buds firmly planted in his ears blasting away some motivational track, he remained blissfully oblivious to any other presence in the room. He felt the need to just move, so he ran. He ran hard and fast and quickly built up a sweat. It wasn’t until a hand waved in front of his eyes that he noticed the man from earlier was also there. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was startled and slipped a bit on the treadmill. Luckily, it was forgiving so he saved himself from embarrassment.

He slowed the treadmill to a stop and paused his music. “Can I help you?”

A grin flawlessly curved the other’s lips. “Yeah, actually. I was wondering whether you wanted to go for a coffee or something.”

His brows furrowed and he eyed the other somewhat suspiciously. “Are you asking me out—"

“—On a date? Yeah, I am.”

“Oh.” Tim was perplexed and unsure of how to continue. It was a brash move from—from whatever-his-name-was and completely uncalculated. He had no idea how old he was or where he was from. For all Tim knew, he could be a criminal mastermind or a mass murderer, although he highly doubted it. “Why?”

Whatever-his-name-was rose his shoulders in a loose shrug, still grinning. “Because life is short and you are hot.”

 Tim exhaled a heavy breath through his nose as a sort of half-laugh, and he couldn’t help but smile. “You just quoted Doctor Who at me.”

“Sure did,” he replied, seemingly proud of himself. “So, whattaya say?”

 _He seems nice, let him down politely_ , Tim thought. “I—uhm, I’m sorry but I have a shoot tomorrow and I need to prepare so I’ll be quite busy today.”

“Then when are you free?” he asked. “I’m pretty much available any day, well, until the weekend. Gotta go back home some time.”

“You’re not going to leave me alone until I say ‘yes’, are you?” asked Tim. It didn’t take a genius to realise how persistent and determined the other was. He shook his head and Tim gave a small sigh. “Okay. When do you finish up here?”

“About three, I think.”

“Okay, meet me in the reception area at three-thirty.”

Whatever-his-name-was tilted his head to the left, a smirk lingering on his lips. “What happened to being busy?”

“It can wait. So, if you’re finished…” He glanced down to the treadmill and hovered his hand over the start button. This little diversion had thrown off his memento and taken him behind his mental schedule.

“Oh, right, sure. See you around, Tim,” he said, walking away and giving a wave.

“You know, I never got your name,” Tim called as he started running again.

“Conner. Conner Kent.”

+++

The receptionist didn’t look up as Tim approached, nor when he took a seat in the waiting area. He checked his watch every few seconds and was irritated each time to find that barely any time had passed. As the day had drawn closer to the allotted meet-up time, Tim found himself getting slightly nervous. He’d had previous dates but very few of them had been with men, and he’d at least _known_ the people he’d asked out before. All he knew about Conner were the things he’d deduced from their brief conversation. He still wasn’t sure why he’d agreed to this; he could’ve easily brushed Conner off despite his determination. Perhaps there was just something about him that Tim found intriguing. Besides, it was only going out for coffee—nothing serious. If anything, Conner would realise how ultimately dull Tim could be and back off. He doubted that they had very much in common anyway; they were practically worlds apart.

A polite but pointed cough drew his attention away from his thoughts. Bruce’s secretary stood in front of him, her suit pristine and her red hair swept into a neat bun. She held a few folders in her arms and a small, black device was nestled in her hear. Tim assumed it was some sort of communication device that allowed her to keep track of the building’s activities; everyone knew that Barbara Gordon practically had access rights to anywhere and anything related to Wayne ArtCorp.

“What’re you doing?” she asked. Tim took a moment to realise how odd this must have looked; one of Wayne ArtCorp’s most well-known models sat in the waiting area of a building where he had access to most, if not all, floors.

“Just waiting,” replied Tim. It was technically true, although not exactly very detailed.

“Waiting for what?” Of course she’d ask that. Tim knew how she could be and it was one of the reasons Dick liked her so much; she never put up with anything and always called you out on anything you were hiding.

“Something that’s not your business.”

She gave a light laugh and shook her head. “Tim, everything’s my business.”

Just as Tim opened his mouth to reply, another interrupted. “Timmy, you ready for our date?”

He turned to Conner, his eyes narrowed in a particularly piercing glare. Conner’s hair had been tamed since the last time Tim had seen him but his clothes were the same; loose fitting jeans matched with a black shirt with a red S emblazoned on it—a symbol Tim wasn’t overly familiar with.

Barbara laughed again, this time in a slightly more disbelieving manner, and bid them good luck before leaving. Tim exhaled a long sigh. What exactly had he gotten himself into?

“You did that on purpose.”

Conner nodded, evidently not ashamed of his actions. “Uh huh. You can’t go around denying our love.”

Tim decided to ignore that comment. “If you want to maintain the ability breathe freely then I suggest you don’t call me ‘Timmy’ again.”

Conner’s brows rose and this time he had no comeback for Tim. “Okay then. I assume you know where we’re going?”

Tim nodded and inclined his head in the direction of the main doors. The place he had in mind was a quaint coffee shop that looked like something plucked directly out of a movie. The walls were bare brick but mostly covered in posters and memorabilia. There were only a few tables dotted about the place but it was hardly ever full; it wasn’t too well known but the people who knew about it were faithful customers. The seats were made of worn out leather and so comfortable you could practically melt into them. The coffee served was always handmade precisely to your taste and the atmosphere within it was always welcoming.

They took the seats in the corner of the shop, almost hidden away from the others in the room. It gave them some privacy to speak freely and feel as if no one was intruding on their date. Their orders were quickly made—Conner took something Tim deemed to be sickeningly sweet whereas he went for a simpler black coffee—and a rather uncomfortable silence drifted between them. Conner’s constant gaze on him was faintly unnerving but even more irritating.

“What?”

Conner shrugged and said, “I was just wondering how you’re supposed to _prepare_ for a photo shoot. Don’t you just have to turn up, get prettied up, and pose for an hour or two?”

This was a question Tim had received countless times before but he tried not to let his annoyance show. “It’s much more technical than that. Well, it is when you’re good. Modelling isn’t just about looking pretty; it’s about understanding the message and the mechanics of photography,” he explained, leaning forwards. Conner’s brows dipped, confusion etched clearly onto his features, so he elaborated. “You need to know what the purpose is and how you’re supposed to convey the meaning behind it, so like body language and expression. Then you need to know what the camera’s focal length is and where the main light is coming from. You have a particular area that you can move around in, but aside from that your positioning needs to be perfect.”

Conner slouched back into his chair and laughed breathily. “That all seems lovely and complicated. I just go out and run around with a ball. And, y’know, train and stay fit and all that.”

“We have to do that too,” Tim commented. “You have to stay constantly healthy and get a good night’s rest before a shoot. If you’re tired, it shows.”

“What about all the models who go out partying every night?”

“Some people put up with divas, others don’t—what’re you smirking at now?”

Conner’s smirk widened at that. “Nothing. You just get really passionate about this.” Tim suddenly felt self-consciousness wash over him and almost visibly shrank away. “No, don’t stop. It’s cute.”

Tim hoped that his scowl covered up any traces of a blush that may have spread over his cheeks. “What about you? What do you do?”

“I study biology and sports psychology over at Metropolis,” Conner replied, “and play football, obviously.”

One of the waiters came over at that point and handed them their drinks. Tim blew gently over the surface of his and took a small sip. “Any particular reason for the football?”

“Kind of a family thing,” said Conner. “My dad used to play professionally but he retired pretty early on. He’s a sports journalist now.”

This sparked some recognition within Tim and he tried to remember the name of the man Conner was referring to. “Clark Kent, right? I didn’t realise you were his son.”

“Not many people do even though we look really similar.” He gestured to the design on his shirt. “The guys at the team used to call him ‘Superman’. They made him this design, only he wears it as blue and red.”

“Does that make you Superboy?” Tim teased.

“I guess it does,” Conner grinned. “I’m planning on going pro after college. I’m not sure what’s gonna happen after that, but I know I don’t want to end up in a nine-to-five desk job like Clark. Maybe I could be a trainer or something.”

“I think I have a confession to make,” said Tim. “I know nothing about football.”

Conner only smiled at him. “I guess we’ll have to change that one day.”

+++

A few days later found Tim being pampered by a small crew dedicated to hair and make-up. Since their first date, he'd not gone out with Conner again but only, he assumed, because their schedules no longer lined up. He’d tried and Tim had even offered to miss one of his classes but it seemed like the fates weren’t in their favour. Instead, Conner took to grinning at him on the few times they passed in the hallways at Wayne ArtCorp or joining him whilst he read at the lunch table. Generally he just talked away, often using his hands or utensils to gesticulate, and did not mind whenever Tim concentrated more on his work than Conner’s story. They fell into an odd routine during these short lunch breaks. Tim would work or watch as Conner joked with a friend and Conner would give Tim the space he wanted but hardly ever received.

That day’s preparation had been fairly limited. His clothes—or lack of—would be provided and the entire thing was advertising male make-up so he didn’t have to worry about putting on any base layers; some of the make-up artists he’d worked with liked to have something to there to speed up the process whereas others liked to start on a blank canvas. All he really had to do was make sure he was clean and presentable and ready for the day. It was an indoor shoot so it took place on the floor of Wayne ArtCorp dedicated to studios for photographers and contemporary film makers. On the short journey to the building, he read over the briefing for the task. It seemed simple enough—only really a few head shots at most—so it hopefully he’d be free for the rest of the day. It was one of the perks of the job; you worked as much as you wanted to and based it around any other influences in your life, such as schoolwork or maybe other projects.

He was as punctual as ever and one of the first to arrive at the location. A few technicians were setting up the lights and adjusting the set, so he took a few minutes to help them get everything up. When the manual part was done, he was whisked to the side to have an assortment of creams and powders smeared onto his face. By the end he had to stop himself from cringing at the sensation; he was fine with the powders but the other cosmetics made him feel like he had been painted. He wasn’t sure how people who wore this much make-up regularly managed it.

Not blinking or flinching away from the eyeliner was a pain. He was only really half paying attention to the make-up artist as she explained how the colour worked with the composition or how his lashes on his top lid made it pointless for eyeliner there. More people were slowly filing into the room; some were working but others were just spectating. He noticed Dick slip into the room and, much to his surprise, Conner arrived fairly late on.

He mostly ignored their presence and focused on the photographer’s instructions, shifting when necessary and allowing the lights to be adjusted accordingly. His co-operation and the photographer’s skill meant they could wrap up fairly quickly. For the photographer and his few assistants, this meant that they could busy themselves with dismantling the set and answering various questions fired at them but for Tim, it meant that he was immediately cornered by Dick. He’d hoped to avoid this encounter, or at least delay it, but it seemed that the impending conversation was inevitable.

“So,” Dick began, a grin already threatening to split his face, “how was your date?”

“It was fine, although I don’t see how it’s any of your business—or how you even know.” He paused and then rolled his eyes. “Barbara?”

“Obviously.” Dick slung an arm around his shoulders, drawing him to a less busy section of the studio. “I think it’s only healthy that I take an active interest in your love life. Now, details.”

Knowing that it would be easier to just get it over with rather than fight it off, Tim said, “There’s not much to say. I agreed to go because he made rejection difficult and we had coffee. We talked. That’s all.”

“And?” Dick prodded.

“And what? He’s a nice guy but I’ll probably never see him again after he leaves.”

“Mm, I doubt that. I mean, he’s kind of staring at you now,” he said, nodded in a general direction beyond Tim. The younger resisted the temptation to turn around and confirm this. “By the way, I think you have a project with Damian coming up.”

Tim’s face fell and he looked to Dick almost pleadingly. “Why me?”

“They need someone with a—uh—shorter stature. Teen clothing or something.”

“Urgh.” Tim exhaled a deep sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “I’d rather spork my eyes out than be paired with the spawn.”

“Hey, it could be worse. At least you don’t have to do homoerotic shoots with Jason.” At Tim’s arched eyebrow, he continued, “Let’s just say that it involved a motorbike and more leather than was strictly necessary.” He cackled at Tim’s horrified expression and turned to leave him alone with the mental image. “I’ll catch’ya later, Tim. Oh, and you should see the football shoot before you leave. I heard it’s looking good.”

By the time Tim had changed and wiped all make-up residue from his face, almost an hour since the end of the shoot had passed. He’d briefly looked for Conner after Dick left but his efforts had been fruitless. It hadn’t been difficult to discover the location of the shoot. He’d only wandered around seemingly aimlessly until one of the commissioned artists pointed him in the right direction.

The set chosen was simple—as most sets were—and Tim found himself slightly surprised by this. A large white screen was positioned and it was difficult to differentiate it from the matching floor. If he’d been asked what he’d expected beforehand, he would’ve assumed the set would be busier or possibly outside. Either way, his attention became captured by something other than the bare set, which was the men who were to be photographed. He couldn’t tell for sure, but there were at least fifteen of them and each was clad in a lavish suit, although they all looked as uncomfortable in their clothing as the next. His eyes settled on Conner who returned the gaze steadily. He excused himself from his teammates and made a beeline towards Tim. His suit, Tim suspected, had been fixed for him. His tie was done up in a complex trinity knot and there appeared to be not a single crease on him. Once reunited, neither really knew what to say which lead to a rather drawn-out silence lapsing between them, filled with the occasional cough.

“So,” Tim started, not completely sure where he was going with the sentence, “you clean up surprisingly well.”

“Uh, thanks.” Conner’s lips quirked in that ever present smirk. “Didn’t expect guyliner to suit you.”

“Why do people insist on calling it ‘guyliner’?” Tim mused, mostly to himself.

Conner, however, answered anyway. “Guess it just makes it manlier.”

Tim gave an undignified snort. “Yeah, ‘cause make up for men is totally manly.” His gaze flickered around the room, taking in the multitude of shuffling bodies and the futile attempts at herding the footballers to one area. “How come you’re doing this, anyway? I know it’s for a calendar but why go as far as Wayne ArtCorp?”

A large shoulder shrugged half-heartedly and it was evident that Conner wasn’t too clear on this himself. “Apparently it’s a test. Some guys at the psychology department—or sociology, whatever—had the bright idea to do two calendars, one with suits and one naked, and see which sells more. And, us being us, we got roped into it. It’s not too bad, mind you. The hotel we’re staying at’s pretty swanky.” 

“Did you honestly just say ‘swanky’?” He paused momentarily before saying, “I imagine the naked photo shoot will be a closed set—no people just wandering in half way through. It’s usually what happens with those types of projects.”

“You sad you can’t come and see it?”

Tim scoffed and gave Conner an unimpressed look. “Trust me; I’ve had enough mental scars for the day.”

“Oh, that was low, Timmy. I think I need you to kiss my ego better.” His grin didn’t falter, even when Tim elbowed him a little too harshly in the ribs. Just as he opened his mouth to tease him some more, an assistant called ‘Conner Kent!’. “Uh, I guess it’s my turn. Any tips?”

Tim nodded his head in the direction of Conner’s teammates. Some of them looked as if they would be nice, possibly even delightful, but a few were whooping loudly and cheering in an incredibly unprofessional manner. “Ignore that lot.”

“That’s one of the rules I live by.” 

As Conner left him for the last minute preparations with the assistants, Peter walked over to Tim, a curious look passing over his face. His eyes flicked from Conner’s retreating form to Tim, arching a suggestive eyebrow.

“Don’t,” warned Tim, knowing full-well what was coming.

“You two seem to have struck a bond,” Peter noted in a faux-idle tone.

“We’re just talking,” Tim corrected, although he didn’t disagree. Peter was soon needed back to ensure the smooth running of events, but he didn’t leave without giving Tim a very pointed look than clearly conveyed he knew there was more to it than Tim was willing to admit.

+++

The following day, Tim didn’t arrive at the Wayne tower until fairly late on. He’d initially intended to spend the day attending his often missed classes and prepare for an essay due in a week or so, but he’d been called back due to some replacement issues. He didn’t mind, of course; he had nothing planned this weekend anyway, and he could always do with the extra money.

The amount of time it took for Tim to exit the elevator and for Conner to grab his arm and pull him to the side was quite remarkable, although Tim had little time to marvel at this wonder as he was more occupied with trying to figure what was going on. 

“Where’s the nearest football field?” Conner asked, as if it wasn’t random at all.

“Why? Are you having withdrawal symptoms?” Tim quipped, sliding his arms from the other’s grip. “You know, a ‘hello’ would suffice.”

“Are all models this diva-ish?” Conner mumbled. “Actually, any field will do—like a park or something.”

“There’s one a couple of blocks away.”

Conner beamed. “Great.” He then shifted the strap of his backpack on his shoulder and made a wide, sweeping motion ahead of him with his arm, waiting for Tim to lead ahead. Tim, however, hesitated.

“Why do you want to go to the park? In case you haven’t notice, it’s raining. It’ll be too muddy to do anything.”

Conner rolled his eyes. “My plan’s a secret, and there’s nothing wrong with getting a little dirty.” The waggling of his eyebrows proved that the innuendo was not accidental.

With a heavy sigh, Tim walked forwards and didn’t stop until he paused by the doors. It was a little odd, he observed, that when he asked Conner to put the file he’d been carrying in his bag, he’d turned away as to keep the bag’s contents away from Tim’s sight. Neither of them had umbrellas so, deciding that they were going to get wet anyway, they walked at a leisurely pace to the park, their hair and clothes slowly soaking and sticking to their skin.

Then they reached the edge of the park, Conner told Tim to walk to the middle of the grass and wait for him. Too impassive to really care about Conner’s scheme, he did as he was told and turned around just in time to catch a well-aimed football. He looked up to Conner, who was once again bearing his frustration-inducing grin.

“Really?”

“Hey, if I have to learn about modelling then you have to learn about football,” he called back.

The park was mostly empty and the traffic was almost stationary. A thin haze of rain obstructed their vision as they played, only really tossing the ball between each other whilst Conner listed off several rules about the game Tim avoided with a passion. They settled into a smooth rhythm with Conner chatting away about the various ways a ball could become dead, and Tim allowed his mind to drift slightly. He thought about what this must look like to those who knew him and then, after a moment, decided that he shouldn’t and didn’t care. He also wondered what would happen after today. He’d thus far forgotten to ask Conner when he was leaving Gotham; it felt like Conner had stumbled into his life and had fairly rapidly made his own spot. It was strange acknowledging that Conner would take his whirlwind elsewhere, away from Tim, to flirt ridiculously with anyone else he took a fancy to and feign interest in whatever career path they travelled down.

He only really paid attention when he went to catch the ball, only to realise that Conner was still holding it.

“Run at me.” Tim’s head cocked to the side so Conner repeated himself. “Come on. Run.”

Tim eyed the ground between the two of them and decided that it would be impossible to make it to Conner with his dignity intact. The grass was laced with mud and the ground squelched whenever either took a step. “I’d rather not.”

If Tim could’ve seen from this distance, he’d have assumed that Conner rolled his eyes. The other then took off at a sprint, running directly towards him. His reflexes were immediate but not quite enough to avoid all contact. Conner collided with his shoulder and pushed him over, successfully caking his back and side in mud. Conner, who had skidded to halt and toppled over, gave a loud laugh which Tim shortly joined in with.

“Why?”

“Figured a hands-on experience would be better.” He crawled over to Tim on his hands and knees and smeared a streak of mud across the bridge of his nose. Tim’s eyes crossed as he followed Conner’s thumb and then focused on the other’s smile. Before he could question why his face had just joined the rest of his mud-covered self, he was being pulled to his feet. He effortlessly caught the ball as Conner passed to him. “I bet I can catch you. I’ll even give you a head start.”

Not bothering to ask whether this was even a part of football or just them messing around, Tim took off at a slippery run.

Their evening progressed much the same as it had started. Neither cared who was watching or judging, or that they had become painted in mud, or that the sky was gradually darkening. They were having fun and that was all that mattered. Tim honestly couldn’t remember laughing this much before. Their chases were interrupted by more frequently occurring tackles and ball-kicking, and Conner had been startled to discover that Tim knew exactly how to use his lower weight to his advantage. Apparently those self-defence classes were finally coming in handy.  He could match Conner’s pace and find any weaker points in Conner’s stance, easily forcing the other man to the ground.

On the last time Conner stole the ball and giddily ran away with it, Tim went for a more inelegant approach and simply chased after him until he was close enough to pounce on his back. This lead to an interesting flail and tangle of limbs. To avoid crushing Tim as he fell, Conner held out his hands to either side of him, landing almost knelt over the other. Tim waited for a moment for Conner to move so he too could get up, but after a while longer than he was sure was necessary to recover, Conner was still fixed in place. His gaze turned questioning but Conner’s expression had no answers for him, only more riddles. Truthfully, he was probably just an open book, a boy who wore his heart on his sleeve, but deciphering emotions had never been Tim’s forte.

It was safe to say that the hand cupping the back of his head, pulling him upwards slightly, came as a surprise. His eyes widened and then slipped closed upon realising Conner’s intent. He kept one of his hands against the ground for stability as he met Conner halfway, closing the distance between their lips. He supposed he should’ve seen it coming, really. Conner’s lips were slightly chapped in the cold air and unexpectedly gentle, moving almost cautiously against Tim’s in their hesitant kiss.

Just as the other began to relax, Tim’s eyes snapped open, his mind finally catching up with his body’s instinctual actions. As a reflex, and one he sincerely regretted afterwards, a fist flew out and hit Conner’s chest with a dulled thud. He pulled away abruptly and, at a loss of what to do, used Conner’s shock to move out from him. He stood awkwardly for a few moments. The rain had lightened, now only a faintly annoying drizzle. He shook his head, the curling ends of his hair falling away from his eyes.

“Conner, I—I don’t—I’m sorry.” Before he had chance to mess anything else up or see the hurt flash across Conner’s eyes, he turned. If questioned, he would not admit to running away.

+++

Nobody asked any questions when Tim called and said that he had other engagements of an urgent nature to see to over the weekend, thus leaving him unable to attend the shoot. As quickly as he had been signed onto the project, he was taken off and wished good luck with whatever needed his attention. In all honesty, Tim just didn’t want to face anyone. He wasn’t sulking, per se; it was more like avoiding any inquisitive albeit personal questioning. Even if Conner hadn’t told anyone about the previous day’s events, someone will have noticed or connected the dots. The people at Wayne ArtCorp were far too nosy for their own good.

He was unsure of whether his current hiding was successfully avoiding Conner, since he didn’t know if the other left before or after the weekend. He somehow made himself feel better by lying to himself, thinking that Conner was probably out with his friends right now, touring the sometimes spectacular city. He’d probably forgotten Tim in light of Gotham’s enormity. It wasn’t all that different from Metropolis, judging by what he’d seen. It still held the same essence of grandeur but was riddled with grime that ran deep through the city. Telling himself that Conner had probably gotten over him and given up on Tim’s ruthless stubbornness did nothing the shift the weight in his chest.

The day passed at a dull pace, during which Tim completed little amount of work for the time he’d had pen to paper—distraction lurked in every corner he looked—and lost count of how many times he’d ignored his phone. He left his apartment once to get food, but aside from that he may as well have not existed to the world. He knew this could not last forever. He had class on Monday morning but was free in the afternoon. He’d already cancelled one project although that had only been allowed because he’d been signed on so suddenly. He wouldn’t be able to wriggle his way out of much more. It would probably just be best to face the situation with his logic straight and his head held high.

His solitary punishment lasted until about six in the evening, when Dick strode his study with a determined look fixed on his features. Tim, regretting ever giving Dick a key to his apartment, sprung up, defences kicking in. After registering who the intruder was, his posture relaxed but only by a little; the expression that could’ve passed for anger on the other’s face was enough to unnerve anyone.

Before Tim could ask what he was doing, Dick stopped a few feet away from him and all but yelled, “Are you _insane_?”

“Um, no?” Tim answered hesitantly. “What did I do?”

Dick threw his arms in the air and released a frustrated noise. “Are you kidding me? Wow, you’ve reached a new level. I think you really are a sociopath.”

“Is this to do with Conner?” asked Tim in a quieter voice. “I didn’t think that warranted insanity.”

“That was just a—never mind. You need start talking and explaining. Maybe we can salvage something from this mess.” He didn’t move from his spot or take a seat. He simply placed his hands on his hips and stared at Tim expectantly.

“How do you even know about this?” asked Tim.

“News travels fast,” replied Dick. “I was talking with one of the guys from the football team and they said something was wrong with Conner. He didn’t say anything but considering you two weren’t exactly subtle when you left yesterday, it wasn’t too hard to figure who’d cause his misery. Now, no more evading, just talking.”

So Tim talked. Dick had always been like the older brother he’d never had, as cheesy as it sounded. He was far too affectionate and took too much of an interest in Tim’s personal life, but he always pulled Tim back up when he fell. He didn’t interrupt as Tim spoke. He skipped over many of the details but tried to stop the words from just tumbling out of his mouth. When he finished, Dick looked torn between amusement and exasperation.

“Tim, you can’t just—that poor boy—what were you thinking?” He sighed and then shook his head.

“I wasn’t thinking; that’s the point.” Tim groaned in frustration and fell back against his desk chair. He carded a hand through his hair, not bothering to flick it away when some strands fell into his eyes. “I just—he was there and then we were kissing and I freaked, okay? I don’t do this. I don’t run off with random football players I just met and go on dates with people I don’t know.”

“Clearly you do. That guy is probably falling head over heels for you and you just toy with him and give him all kinds of mixed signals. No wonder he’s been sulking just as much as you have.” Spotting Tim’s incredulous expression, he added, “Don’t say you haven’t been sulking because you totally have.”

He looked up to Dick with a helpless expression. “I don’t see why you need to concern yourself in this. I messed up and he’s gonna go back to Metropolis and forget all about me.”

“Nuh-uh, not gonna happen.” Dick took a few steps forwards and crouched in front of Tim. “You fucked up and that’s okay. You’re only human. All we’ve gotta do is fix it. Please tell me you at least talked to him since yesterday.” Tim’s blank stare was the only answer he needed. He inhaled sharply through his nose and then slowly exhaled, hanging his head against Tim’s shoulder. “For someone so smart, you are such an _idiot_.”

“I thought he wouldn’t care about me,” Tim said lamely. Even he could hear how pathetic the excuse was. It had seemed logical in his head but it became perforated with flaws once muttered aloud.

“He wouldn’t care?” Dick repeated. “I swear you’re so hopeless at times.”

“Gee, thanks, Dick.”

“The guys leave for Metropolis tomorrow night so you better fix things by then.” He stood in a graceful motion and walked back to the door, turning as he opened it. “If you don’t, then I will personally kick your ass all the way to Star City.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Tim muttered as he turned back to his desk. If what Dick said was true, then he had a few arrangements to make.

+++

Tim usually found that whenever he was in an emotional crisis—rare as they were—it was often more helpful to talk to one of his female friends rather than Dick. No matter how good his intentions were, Dick just had a different way of seeing things and one Tim wasn’t overly sure he found helpful. His preference to female friends during times like these were not based on assumed stereotypical gender roles, but because of the few close friends he had, the female ones were more likely to just bluntly call him out on any crap he was giving. It was often mentally draining and sometimes traumatising, but it got the job done.

The diner they’d arranged to meet at for breakfast had been the chosen destination after their first date. Tim tried not to dwell on that as he entered the establishment, eyes quickly scanning the area for the familiar trail of blonde tresses. Steph waved at him from her seat and gestured to him, a grin curving her lips. Tim removed his jacket, draped it over the top of his chair, and sat opposite her. They exchanged the greetings and pleasantries quickly and gave their usual order to the waiter. Steph, never one to avoid a subject, dove straight into the topic at hand.

“You’re lucky I didn’t call Dick before I came here,” she said, resting her elbow on the table and propping her chin up on her fist. “So, what’s up?”

“I have a slight predicament,” Tim explained in a manner that could’ve been seen as casual. Internally, though, his mind was working overdrive as he tried to figure out how to best phrase the situation. “There’s this guy—“

“Is he cute?”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Does it matter?”

“Not really,” she shrugged. “Just curious. Continue.”

“As I was saying, he’s from Metropolis and the college he goes to has paid for the football team to come down here for a social-experiment-calendar-thing.” Admittedly, it wasn’t his most eloquent of moments. “He asked me out and we’ve talked a lot since then but the other day we were in the park and he kissed me and I may have punched him and ran away.”

There was a short pause where Steph looked at him as if she thought he was joking. When his expression remained steady, she placed her head in her hands. Her shoulders shook and for a brief moment, Tim thought she was crying. It soon became apparent that she was in fact laughing.

“You—oh my God, Tim. Why did you do that?”

“It’s not like I meant to,” he mumbled. “It was just a reaction—well, a delayed reaction.”

“Did you apologise?”

“Yes but I don’t think he understood what I was apologising for.” He stopped talking as their food arrived. He’d opted for some plain waffles whereas Steph had chosen pancakes practically drowned in syrup. “I mean, I liked it. The kiss. I kissed him back but then I realised what I was doing and who I was with and then I just—just didn’t know what to do.”

“So you punched him.”

“That would be the case.”

Steph cut a section out from her stack of pancakes and chewed thoughtfully. “You like him, right?”

“Yes.” There was really no point in lying to her; she’d see straight through it immediately.

“Then go talk to him and say that you’re sorry for being socially inept but you very much enjoyed the kissing and would like to try it again some time.” She pointed at him with her knife and a small drop of syrup oozed down it. “You’ve gotta punch your dignity in the gut and go make up with him. I’d take him out for dinner or something. Nowhere fancy, though; you don’t wanna intimidate him”

“You don’t even know who he is,” Tim pointed out.

Her shoulders rose in a small shrug. “No but it seems like he makes you happy. That’s good enough for me.”

Tim found himself smiling, even though he was only half-aware of it.

+++

It occurred to Tim as he made his way to Conner’s hotel that he had absolutely no idea where it was. Dick was no longer answering his phone for some unknown reason so he was left with a few loose ends to chase up. First of all, he figured someone at Wayne ArtCorp might know. The building was hardly ever empty; in fact, it generally thrived over the weekend. It wasn’t much of a surprise when he found that people were rushing all over the place, even on a Sunday. As far as he could see, however, none of the footballers or any of their supervisors were around. In an act of fate, though, he spotted Peter making his way up the main staircase. The man didn’t stop when he called him and barely even noticed his presence until he ran up the steps behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Peter jumped and pulled the headphones from his ears.

“Tim? I thought you didn’t work weekends,” was the first thing he said.

“I don’t,” replied Tim, anxious to get the information he was after. “Where’re the footballers? Their hotel, I mean.”

“The hotel? They would’ve left it by now,” he said, pulling his sleeve back to check his watch. With an affirmative nod, Tim felt all his hope fade away. “Yeah, they’ll be at the bus station by now. The lot of them were complaining about having to wait around for ages.”

Something swelled in his chest and his voice was far more eager than he was entirely comfortable with. “Do you know which station or when they leave?”

“No idea.” He clasped Tim’s shoulder and gave him an encouraging smile. “Don’t give up, though.”

Tim had no intention to. He spun on his heel, shouted a quick thanks to Peter over his shoulder, and was back out the door again. The bitter wind was not very welcoming but he did he best to ignore the unfortunate weather. His car was parked not too far away and he fumbled for his keys as he approached it. He was still within the city speed limits as he manoeuvred about the roads, although admittedly he was pushing it. The car thrummed as he urged it forwards, glancing to the street signs as they whizzed past. His best chance would be at the city’s central bus station—the largest one in Gotham. He’d never had much of a need to go there before so he was mostly guessing with the directions. Luckily, he’d always been good at logically estimating.

Only a few short-term parking spaces were free when he finally arrived. His parking was less than admirable but he cared little for it. Right now, his concentration was focused on other things.

The crowd bustled to and fro with a general discontented grumble. Tim checked the largest board displaying all bus times and—true to every chick flick he’d been forced to watch—the bus to Metropolis departed in mere moments. He ran in the signed direction, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of the scruffy dark hair and cocky grin. His breath came in short pants as he slowed down. A man sat under a shelter and a small trickle of tourists walked in either direction. There was no bus.

He let out a loud noise of frustration and punched the brick wall next to him. A sharp pain shot up his arm but he barely registered it. He was too late. He’d tried to fix his mistakes but in the end he was too late. He leaned his forehead against the wall and released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Something gone wrong?” asked a voice. “You miss the bus? There’s not much in Metropolis, anyway. I wouldn’t bother.”

Tim turned towards the man. He had a woollen hat placed firmly on his head and was reading the day’s newspaper through glasses precariously balanced on his nose. “That’s not true. Something important is in Metropolis. Or at least he’s on his way there.”

“Well, the next bus leaves in an hour,” said the man, turning a page. “I suggest you get on it.”

Tim gave a breathy laugh and shook his head. “I wouldn’t know where to go.”

“If he means that much to ya then you’ll be back soon. I can guarantee ya that, son.”

Tim pondered on the man’s words for a moment and then left. He had no reason to stay; his reason was probably miles away by now

+++

The days following were not some of Tim’s best. He retreated back into his solitary routine and acknowledged very few who approached him. In between his classes and work, many started noticing his change in attitude. Few, though, cared enough to figure out what had caused it. It was ironic, he had speculated one day, that he had been the cause of one boy’s misery and now the same boy was the cause of his own. What goes around truly does come back around.

He tackled his work, both model and academic related, with a determination that was unrivalled. It was better for him to channel his feelings into something productive rather than wallowing in self-pity over some lost chance at love, or whatever he had begun to feel for Conner. This left barely any energy for other activities, such as socialising with those he usually made time for.

One day, whilst picking at his pasta that he’d bought for lunch, a shape slowly slid into his line of vision. When he shifted his gaze from the book placed in front of him, he saw that it was a reasonably large paper bag. Frowning slightly, he looked over to the person beside him.

“Thought you might want a copy,” Peter explained, gesturing vaguely to the bag. “I sped up editing a bit to get a couple printed for you.”

Curious, Tim prised the bag open and peeked inside. He blinked and then looked away, sending Peter an extremely confused look. “Did you just give me porn or something?”

Peter snorted a laugh, his shoulders shaking. “Nah, it’s the Metropolis U calendar. I’m guessing you just found the naked one.”

With a deadpan expression, Tim stared up at the other, watching him as he began to laugh again. “Why do I have this?”

“’Cause there was a special order. If it makes you feel any better, you’re the first sale,” he grinned. “Don’t worry, Dick signed it in his name.” He took two steps away and then almost jumped, as if recalling something of great importance. “By the way, he put a note in the bag. He told me to ask you to check it.”

Tim waited until Peter was far enough away before searching through the bag. A slip of paper was folded and placed between the two calendars. It was of thick print and looked rather expensive. As he unfolded it, he noticed immediately that it was from Bruce’s desk. He’d never received an appointment card from the man before; he’d never needed one. Usually he would go up to his office and Bruce would be more than willing to make time for him. He hated to think what matter could have called for a formality such as this.

His appointment was signed as being only five minutes after his scheduled lunch break but Tim figured that no one would mind if he left a little early. Bruce, being one of the most important men in the company, had his office on the top floor with an incredible view of Gotham. From that height you could almost forget about the dangers that lurked on every street corner. Many would not expect Bruce Wayne to own a company such as this but he was not the one giving artistic direction or creative inspiration. He was the one funding events and developing new hardware and software for both consumer and professional use. He also made sure that the company gave more than enough money to various charities, which was always favoured by the public.

He was sat on his lush, leather chair when Barbara told Tim to go in, and was scribbling away rapidly at a piece of paper. He glanced up as Tim entered and took a few seconds to finish. He leaned back and Tim felt quite like he was being scrutinised. Evidently any well placed lies would be detected instantly. Nothing got past Bruce Wayne; he gave Sherlock Holmes a run for his money.

“Tim, take a seat,” he said in an unusually pleasant voice.

Tim did as instructed. “Is something wrong, Bruce? You don’t usually call me up like this.”

“That depends on your definition of ‘wrong’. If you want to know, then Dick requested this meeting.” Tim’s brows rose. “It’s been brought to my attention that you’ve been somewhat distracted recently.”

“I’ve been completing all my work,” Tim interrupted. “I don’t see why that’s a cause for concern.”

“No, but Dick requested something from me of a different nature.” He eyed Tim, who held his gaze despite how uneasy it made him feel. “The Kent boy left about a fortnight ago, didn’t he?”

Tim groaned and visibly deflated. “Oh God. _That’s_ why you wanted to talk to me?”

Bruce gave a low chuckle and leaned forwards in his chair. “Indeed. I have some connections with the Kent family. I’m surprised you hadn’t met him before. Clark visit quite regularly, as do his parents. Although I think they’re spending this weekend at home. You know, for a family dinner. I believe Conner is also attending.”

“No. Bruce, please don’t.”

“They’re expecting you,” he said, in a tone that clearly told Tim not to argue. “Conner isn’t, but the others are. I don’t care much about what’s between the two of you but Dick said you left matters unsettled. I’d hate for a rift to form between our families.”

“So what am I doing?”

“Well, right now you’re going to take the rest of the day off to pack. You’re leaving in the morning. Your father already knows and the arrangements have been made.” Bruce picked up his pen again and poised it over the paper.

“Didn’t you think to ask me about this before you sorted everything out?” Tim asked, taken aback by the sudden change in events.

“Not really,” said Bruce, offhandedly. Tim supposed there was no point in asking Bruce to reconsider the arrangements and just gave a small nod. Barbara caught his eye on his way out and smiled to him. He suspected she had something to do with this too.

The weekend rolled around with a looming darkness, although Tim assumed that was more his anxiety more than anything. For the end of November, it was a surprisingly mild day. For once, he left his apartment without the need to wrap up in numerous layers of various thicknesses and could feel comfortable in a simple jacket. He drove to the bus station and this time actually knew the way. It was busier than it had been the last time he was here, but maybe he’d been too distracted to notice. According to his ticket, his bus departed in little less than ten minutes.

When he arrived in Metropolis, there was already a car waiting to take him to a place called Smallville. It sounded almost offensively homely. He spent the majority of the journey staring out of the window and watching as rushed city streets faded into dirt tracks and crops. It wasn’t where he’d have guessed Conner was from but now that he thought about it, it suited him. The car pulled over as they approached a moderately size house situated by a farm and the driver unloaded Tim’s luggage for him, even though it was only a small bag. He drove away without a word and Tim wondered for a moment whether he would be back tomorrow.

Turning slowly, he faced the house like an enemy. If he listened carefully, he could hear laughter from inside. Evidently Conner wasn’t too shaken up about their interactions. He briefly considered turning around now and hitchhiking back to Gotham. He knew better, though. His disappearance would be noticed, no matter how much he would want to go unseen.

Squaring his shoulders, he strode towards the front door with a false sense of confidence. He wasn’t intruding. He’d been invited—or something like that.

Conner opened the door shortly after Tim knocked. He’d first thought that his knocks had gone unheard but apparently not. The other’s eyes widened and he looked over Tim’s form as if expecting him to vanish. He was rendered speechless so Tim took the pressure off his shoulders and spoke first.

“Hi.” It wasn't much, but it was a start.

“Hey. What’re you doing here?”

“Conner, I—“ _Was invited, need to apologise, am a colossal idiot, wouldn’t blame you if you kicked me out,_ “—I don’t really know.”

Why did he always say the wrong thing?

Conner stared at him disbelieving and went to close the door, but it was jammed as Tim blocked it with his foot, stepping forwards into the threshold. He figured that he should try to speak with actions rather than words. Despising the inches between them, Tim hooked his arms around Conner’s shoulders and tilted his head upwards. The kiss was more determined than their last, although it still held traces of hesitance. Tim gave Conner enough room to pull away if he wanted to, but Conner was almost too happy to respond.

“Hi,” Tim said when he pulled away.

“You said that already,” replied Conner with a smile.

“I know but I don’t know what to say.”

Conner moved backwards a few steps and pulled Tim with him further into the house. “Then don’t say anything. You punch pretty hard, you know.”

“Yeah, I’m really, _really_ sorry about that. I took self-defence classes as a kid and it was the first thing that came to mind. But I really liked the kiss and I really like you.”

“I forgive you for all of that. I don’t mind handling the weird stuff as long as I get you.” Tim spared him the embarrassment of pointing out how incredibly cheesy that was. “And I really like you too.”

“And I would really like it if you two helped set the table,” called an amused feminine voice.

With a short laugh, Conner called back, “Coming, Ma.” He detangled himself from Tim and motioned for the other to go lead on, ignoring the fact that Tim had never been in this house before.

“Oh, and I have the calendar,” said Tim, glancing back to Conner as he walked ahead to where he assumed the dining room was.

Conner arched a brow. “Oh really? Which one?”

The only reply he received was a smirk. 


End file.
